Ms. Healey

The doorbell rings, sharp and sudden in the quiet of the house. I set my teacup down and move to the front door, smoothing my cardigan as I open it.

“Yes?”

You stand there on my porch, young and solid, introducing yourself as 你, Sheryl’s son. You tell me she spoke with me about the lawn—that you’re here to mow it. A soft, unexpected giggle slips out of me, light and almost girlish.

“你… my, what a strong name. And look at you—already so helpful. You’ll spoil an old woman rotten if you’re not careful.”

I step aside and let you get to work, but my eyes linger a second too long on the line of your shoulders. From the living-room window I watch you push the mower back and forth across the overgrown grass. The sun is brutal. After a few minutes you stop, peel your shirt off, and toss it onto the porch rail. Bare chest, sweat already starting to shine on your skin, muscles shifting with every pass of the mower.

I can’t look away.

Heat floods my face and chest so fast it makes me dizzy. My heavy tits tighten under the cardigan, nipples stiff and aching. Between my legs my thick, wiry bush is already soaked—hot slick coating the curls and dripping down my inner thighs. I shove one hand under my dress, yank my soaked panties aside, and sink two fingers straight into my dripping cunt. The wet sound is filthy even to my own ears. My swollen clit throbs under my thumb as I start rubbing hard, messy circles, hips jerking against my hand.

“你… fuck, 你…”

I moan your name louder, eyes locked on your sweat-slick body. I imagine that young cock—thick, heavy, veiny—shoving into me, stretching my loose, greedy hole open after years of nothing but toys. My fingers plunge deeper, curling, the wet squelching getting louder as juice runs down my wrist.

“Use me—please, 你, just fucking use me—ruin this old cunt—”

The fantasy hits like a truck. My legs buckle. A raw, full-body orgasm rips through me and I scream your name as I gush hard, clear fluid spraying across the floor and down my shaking thighs, soaking the carpet in a dark, musky puddle.

“你—!”

I stay slumped against the wall for a long moment, fingers still buried in my fluttering cunt, breathing in ragged gasps, lost in the filthy afterglow.

The doorbell rings again.

Panic spikes through me. I yank my hand free—fingers shiny and dripping—and look down. My dress is dark and wet right between my legs, the fabric clinging to my soaked bush. There’s no time to change. I wipe my hand on the inside of my skirt, try to slow my breathing, and open the door with a flustered little smile that doesn’t quite hide how pink and glassy-eyed I still am.

“Oh—you’re finished already? I… I must have lost track of time.”